As a light breeze began to blow Mark found himself increasingly irritated at the incessant whisper of the pine tree branches. He bent low over the snow, struggling to follow Steven’s tracks in the dim light. His back ached and he realised for the first time that day that he was hungry, as well as emotionally exhausted. He was ready to collapse.
‘We need light,’ he groaned as he clambered to his feet. ‘Can you make a torch or something for us?’
Borrowing Mark’s battle-axe, Gilmour moved to the nearest tree and hacked off a bough thick with green needles that were quickly fading to black in the waning daylight. No sooner had the branch come away in his hand that it ignited, seemingly of its own volition, with a pleasant yellow flame. Gilmour handed the branch to Mark. ‘Will this do?’
‘Thanks,’ Mark answered wryly, ‘ I didn’t mind spending the last hour stooped over looking for disappearing footprints!’
‘It was not an hour.’
‘You don’t remember how long an hour is. Gettysburg was one hundred and forty years ago,’ Mark reminded him. ‘I’m surprised you remember-’ Mark stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the scene before him now illuminated by the burning branch. It looked like the aftermath of a violent battle, and there was a circular patch of ground that seemed as if Eldarn itself had been wounded: an open sore left infected and festering in the Blackstone Mountains.
‘Good God,’ Mark whispered. ‘What on earth happened here?’
The snow had been dyed a deep crimson and the trees around were splattered with gore. Mark looked around and swallowed, hard. All his previous optimism vanished in an instant. There was no hope of finding Steven alive.
Pieces of something – maybe a grettan, or perhaps a pack of grettans – lay strewn about: a random collection of limbs, entrails and patches of fur. It looked as if the beasts had exploded with enormous force. Squinting through the thin yellow light thrown out by his makeshift torch, he saw the hillside was dotted with bloody fragments. They looked oddly out of place, red splashed on the otherwise unbroken blanket of snow.
Gilmour tore a second branch from a nearby pine and created a torch for himself. He moved rapidly, searching for any sign of Steven, but he could see nothing amidst the carnage.
‘What could have done this?’ Mark asked, his voice hushed.
‘Steven,’ Gilmour said.
‘But I though he couldn’t use the magic to destroy at will.’ Mark sounded confused.
‘It looks like that is no problem when he is protecting us, or the integrity of our eventual goal.’
‘But what about that tree this morning? Why did the staff respond then? That tree was no threat.’
‘That was strange, wasn’t it? I wondered if anyone else had found it odd that he was able to summon the magic by the sheer force of his will.’ Gilmour scratched at his beard. ‘He certainly is an interesting young man.’ He bent over to pick up a section of what appeared to be a grettan forelimb. Turning it over in his hands, he sniffed it, then added ‘This wound had begun to clot and heal. This is the same beast that came for us last night.’
‘Malagon?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Gilmour paused, and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘No, I didn’t detect Nerak’s presence earlier and I don’t now. I think this animal was injured, perhaps dying, and it attacked Steven out of fury, hunger and pain.’
‘So where is he?’
Gilmour moved around the periphery of the carnage, still looking for evidence that Steven had walked away from the devastation. He hadn’t found Steven’s pack or the staff, so he still had some hope that the young man was alive.
Finally, they came upon footprints, moving east through the forest. ‘There,’ Gilmour said, pointing into the distance, ‘that way. Let’s go.’
‘But why would he go east?’ Mark knelt beside the footprints and dabbed his fingers in the congealed blood trail that dotted the snow.
‘He wouldn’t,’ Gilmour stated, as if his conclusions were obvious. ‘He was carried.’
A look of fear passed over Mark’s face and he felt for the battle-axe as he considered their options. ‘I’m going after him,’ he said finally.
‘Mark, look at these strides,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re long, much too long for the average man moving through snow, especially while carrying someone.’
‘What does that mean? Who carried him off?’
‘I’m not certain, but I do know you will never catch up with them in the dark.’
‘What should we do?’ Mark was trying hard not to break down. His best friend was injured, maybe dying, and had been carried off into the night by an unknown someone – or some thing.
Gilmour put an arm across his shoulder. ‘We should collect the others, wait until dawn and then follow along this path as quickly as we can.’
‘Then I’m going ahead now,’ Mark said, resolute. ‘I’ll move slowly enough to give you a chance to catch up, but quickly enough to reach Steven if they stop for the night. If this is his blood, they won’t be able to get far without stopping to bind up his injuries.’
It was obvious Mark would not be swayed, but Gilmour made one last plea. ‘Mark, it really isn’t wise to break up the group even more. Especially not in this weather.’
‘I won’t leave this path,’ Mark promised, ‘and if the trail splits, I’ll follow the blood.’
Gilmour nodded. ‘Fair enough. We will be along as soon as possible. Do not take any unnecessary chances.’
‘Okay,’ Mark said as he hefted his pack. Holding the pine torch aloft, he asked, ‘Any chance you can keep this thing burning for me?’
Gilmour waved once; Mark could see his lips moving slightly. ‘Done,’ he called, and waved again as Mark disappeared into the night.
‘Which one is he?’ Hannah squinted. The tavern was dark and a cloud of tobacco smoke billowed out when Churn pulled open the unwieldy wooden door.
Hoyt joined her at the top of a short flight of stairs that provided a slightly elevated vantage point from which to view the entire great room of the Middle Fork Tavern. Alen apparently frequented this bar during the dinner aven. A great fire roared in the massive stone fireplace at one end of the room and a veritable maze of small tables dotted the landscape between it and the actual bar against the opposite wall. Behind racks of casks, ceramic jars and blown-glass bottles, two windows looked out on a broad thoroughfare running east to west through the village.
The windows, though large, were made of many tiny panes and let little natural light into the room. Hoyt thought the Middle Fork Tavern was as close to drinking in a cave as one could hope to achieve without actually climbing into the mountains.
‘I don’t see him,’ he replied, ‘but the light’s dreadful. Let’s take a walk; I’m sure he’s here somewhere.’
Churn gripped Hoyt’s shoulder and began signing.
‘Right,’ Hoyt agreed, ‘if we don’t find him, I’ll talk with the bartender. He’s sure to know where Alen has gone.’
The room was oddly shaped, much longer than wide, and canopied with an arched stone ceiling. It looked as if some entrepreneurial investor had walled up an unused section of sewer and dropped a staircase down from the street. Great beams framed the walls and outlined the arched canopy in a corps of flying buttresses holding nothing aloft. Hannah shuddered: she felt as if the ancient stone and mortar ceiling might drop on them at any moment.
‘Tell me again what he looks like,’ she said, ‘then we can split up.’
‘Older than me, maybe four hundred and fifty Twinmoons.’ Hoyt did the maths for Hannah and went on, ‘I think you would say about sixty or sixty-five years.’ He pronounced the strange word like ears, and Hannah stifled a giggle.
‘He had short hair last time I saw him, greying – it’s probably all white by now. Not imposing, slightly shorter than me, and a bit heavy around the midsection. If he’s eating, his plate will most likely have a gansel leg, two potatoes with the skins on and half a loaf of bread dipped in gravy.’
‘You know him well, then,’ Hannah laughed. ‘Good. You check the bar; I’ll go towards the fireplace.’ She reached out for Churn and asked, ‘Would you come with me? I don’t like the look of this place. It makes me feel like it’s about to come crushing down on us.’